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Personal Narrative : The Runaway

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The Runaway Since I can remember, I have always had a wild imagination. I remember staring off into space for long hours, which really had only been a few minutes, imagining what it would be like to fly. To sprout large angelic wings from my back and take off out of the open windows of my small classrooms. Or what it would be like to grow a set of gills and live my life under the sea with all the fish and dolphins. None of my friends ever seem to think quite like I do; imagine the same way I did. None of them spend as long staring off into the blank nothingness as my mind wanders beyond the realms of existence. My second grade year, I finally began to realize that this was a gift God had graced me with. The ability to imagine beyond what …show more content…

West is a tall, thin boy; always covered in bruises from the many sports he played. He stands high above my mother and I, though he is only in the ninth grade. He barged into the tiny kitchen, now crowded by the three of us. “That’s not a real job! No one would read anything YOU wrote!” he shouted loudly as three others about his size, maybe even bigger, attempted to slither into the kitchen, but resulted to just opening the curtains due to the lack of room in the kitchen. I felt hot tears sting my eyes as they fell down my cheek and onto the floor with the forgotten water from the dishes. My mother looks between the two of us and shakes her head, sighing loudly. I knew from that sigh, she was going to choose West’s side. She always chose his side, generally because he’s always right. “Go outside.” her voice was lower than before, barely above a light whisper. West rolls his eyes, pushing the three other boys back into the living room and out of the back screen door that separated the blazing heat of the outdoors from the cool interior of the house. Mother turns back to me, wrinkles in her forehead, as if she were thinking of a way to let me down easily. “Sara,” she began, raising her voice enough for it to be considered a normal volume, “your brother is right.” She takes a breath as if she were going to say more, but I don’t stick around to listen. Storming from the room, I grab my backpack, shoving assorted

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